


At the Table

by Meadowlark27



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: College AU, F/M, Modern AU, References to Past Domestic Abuse, Smut, best friends trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 12:03:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6703834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meadowlark27/pseuds/Meadowlark27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having been his best friend for four years, Katniss is used to Peeta worrying about her. Once she starts bunking with him after a violent breakup, however, things start getting out of hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Table

**Author's Note:**

> When a tumblr drabble gets wildly out of hand, you get something like this. Special thanks to madamemarquise for giving me the prompt!
> 
> Un-beta'd. All mistakes are mine.

“Where have you been? I was ready to call the police!”

 

I startle at the sound of Peeta’s voice, sharpened and raw with alarm. He’s standing by the kitchen table, thick arms crossed, eyes dark and unyielding as if to say, _You’re in big trouble, young lady._

 

I shouldn’t laugh, but I can’t help it. “Sorry to scare you, _Mom_.”

 

“Don’t make fun of me. I was worried about you.”

 

“You worry about _everything_ ,” I say, setting my key fob in the wicker bowl and joining him in the kitchen. “I can’t even stub my goddamn toe in this apartment without you getting ready to call an ambulance.”

 

The pinkness in his face starts to scatter, and he rakes his fingers through his curls. When I drop into one of the wooden chairs, he slides into the one across from me, his natural desire to forgive me and his still-present alarm warring in his expression. He reconciles the two by saying, “Well, you have to tell me what happened, now.” 

 

Peeta hasn’t always been this overprotective. We’ve been friends since we were both shrimpy, wide-eyed eighteen-year-olds at freshman orientation, and he used to marvel at my toughness. But since The Fight last month, he’s been treating me like a helpless little bear cub.

 

As much as I want to, I can’t blame him. If he’d shown up at _my_ apartment, cheekbone split with a blue-black bruise flowering under the skin, I would’ve gone full-on Mama Bear, too.

 

“We barely said a word to each other.” I pick at the dirt under my nails, avoiding his eyes. “He just sat on the couch as I packed up all my stuff.”

 

“Why’d it take so long?”

 

“I needed to clear my head afterwards.” And this is the honest truth: There was enough tension soaking the apartment that, three hours later, I can still feel it on my skin, sinking its claws into the bone. I could barely breathe even after I’d gotten out of that apartment and withdrawn to the park. I ended up sitting on that bench for the entire afternoon, all of my belongings crammed into the two boxes that were now taped up in my trunk, as I let each gust of wind unfold my lungs one small crease at a time.

 

When I foolishly glance up at Peeta, the concern blooming around his pupils is enough to make me feel it all again.

 

“I’m okay,” I say, folding my hands over my stomach.

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

The way his chest heaves shows me he doesn’t believe me, but he nods anyway. “Let me make you some pancakes.”

 

“Peeta—”

 

“I’ll put chocolate chips in them,” he continues, pinning me with a smile that says, _you have no choice but to let me be nice to you._ “I’ll even let you put whipped cream on them, even though that should be unconstitutional.”

 

I want to tell him that I don’t want his pity pancakes. I don’t want _anything_ from him. He’s already given me too much—letting me bunk with him until I find a steadier place to land, even insisting that he sleep on the sofa because I “need a bed more than he does”—and will continue to give, give, give, even after I tear apart at the seams from all his favors.

 

But knowing my protests would be no use, I roll my eyes and say, “Alright, Mama Bear.”

 

* * *

 

As Peeta finishes up with the dishes from earlier tonight, I slink away to the bathroom to get ready for bed. I brush my teeth, funnel my hair up into a bun, wash my face; once this ritual is behind me, I lean closer to the mirror, inspecting my cheek. The impression of Gale’s knuckles has faded from blue-black to yellow to nothing, the only evidence being the thread of pink scar tissue sewn along the bone. Even though I can only see the proof when I look for it, sometimes, the spot still tingles in remembrance, as if my skin is even less forgiving than I am.

 

Out in the living room, Peeta’s dressing the sofa with his bedsheets.

 

“You should sleep in your own bed tonight.” This is my request every night.

 

And _this_ is his response every night: “I don’t mind the couch.”

 

“It won’t be like this much longer,” I promise. “Now that I have my stuff, I can actually focus on getting an apartment of my own.”

 

While arched over the sofa, his back stiffens. Slowly, he straightens himself, brows pinched together. Confusion gleams under his thick lashes. “You don’t have to rush, you know. I’m not in any hurry to get you out of here.”

 

“Yeah, but it’s not fair for me to bunk here without even paying half the rent. Besides, you’re too busy to keep babying me.” It’s the last semester of both our senior years, meaning senior thesis papers, lining up internships, and getting our shit together are all piled high on our plates. He doesn’t have any extra room for my demands. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

 

“You’ve _never_ been a burden,” he promises, stepping closer. The scent of dish detergent, sharp and fruity, floats from his hands as he reaches out, touching my shoulder awkwardly. “You can stay. At least for the rest of the semester.”

 

“Peeta—”

 

“If it makes you feel better, you can chip in for the rent.” His eyes soften. “I just like having you around, you know? I didn’t realize how lonely this place was until you showed up.”

 

I slug him playfully on the arm, just once. “You’re such a softy.”

 

He cups his hands over his heart in mock-offence. “Break my heart, why don’t you?” But he smiles, and his causes one of my own to twitch in the corners of my mouth.

 

But then I feel a yawn coming on. The clock on the wall reads eleven o’clock, and since I have morning classes, I start backing toward the bedroom. “I’ll see you in the morning,” I tell him, turning around.

 

When my hand grips the knob, behind me, in a voice warm as a towel taken from the dryer, he murmurs, “Sleep well, Katniss.”

 

* * *

 

It’s been happening in most dreams since the fight: Gale’s accusations, my yelling, the stiffness of his arm, trembling with tension, and then the fist that cracks against my cheek and breaks open my skin, fragile as eggshells, slicing pain into the bones and muscles. But there’s more blood in this dream. It doesn’t stop at one punch. And his voice grumbles, pierces like a wolf’s howl, _you don’t love me, you can’t love me, you love him, you whore, you’re worthless_ , with each syllable puncturing my lungs, until I’m trying to scream, but I can’t, I _can’t_ , and—

 

“Katniss, it’s okay.” A whisper, a warm hand patching up the wounds on my skin. “Shh. It’s just a dream, Katniss. You’re okay.”

 

My eyes flutter open to Peeta’s, pupils fat as buttons in the dark as he gently tugs me back into consciousness. He’s kneeling beside me on the bed, pushing back the sheets soaked with sweat. His hands are on my arms. His voice sews up the cut on my face. There’s no blood anymore.

 

I realize I’m trembling, and he wraps his arms around me, as if this will bid the shaking away. Though our four-year friendship is no stranger to hugs, there’s been only one other time when he held me like this: When I arrived at the door of his apartment after The Fight, blood and dried tears smeared over my cheeks.

 

“I’m sorry,” I choke into his neck.

 

“Don’t be.” His hands, strong and warm, knead gentle circles over my back. I can feel the wetness spreading over the collar of his shirt, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything. And he doesn’t let go.

 

He waits for the trembling to stop, for the breathing to even before he asks, “What happened?”

 

I shake my head. “Just another nightmare.”

 

I don’t tell him about my nightmares, just like I still haven’t told him about what exactly happened at The Fight. He knows about the yelling. He knows about the fist. He doesn’t know about the allegations, the _dumb_ allegations, or anything else, just like he won’t know about these dreams, where they make brutal reappearances. In the four years I’ve known him, I never thought anger was even in Peeta’s coding until I showed up on his doorstep, and now that I’ve seen the way it eats him raw, I never want to be the cause of it again.

 

Thankfully, tonight, he doesn’t push any further. He just grazes his thumb over my shoulders, gently lying me down on the mattress. I lock my fingers around his wrist; even as my consciousness slowly ebbs, I don’t release him, because even though I’m too cowardly to say it, I don’t want him to go.

 

* * *

 

Our alarms start blaring at the same time. We both rouse to the image of the other’s eyes fluttering open; his shimmer from sleep, bluer than ever, his golden curls matted to one side of his head. He smiles drowsily at me, and something unfamiliar clots in my lungs.

 

I mutter as casual of a “good morning” as I can muster before hopping out of bed. I don’t give myself time to register that he stayed the whole night with me.

 

On our way to campus, we ride our bikes side-by-side, since we both have nine-thirty classes on Mondays and might as well make the trip together. He doesn’t say anything about the nightmare or the bed. Instead, he rambles on about his thesis, and my muscles unwind when I realize he’s avoiding the subject just as deliberately as I am.

 

After we part ways, I don’t see him until I return to the apartment that afternoon. He’s already home, his pinched-up face framed by the chimneys of books he has piled on either side of his laptop at the kitchen table.

 

“When will you give your poor English major brain a break?” I ask, making my way to the fridge.

 

Peeta doesn’t look up as his fingers dance over the keyboard. “In the grave,” he says.

 

“Well—” I pop the lid off a Tupperware, inspecting the rice inside. “—you look like you’re already halfway there.”

 

His chest swells and deflates as he pushes out a long sigh, leaning back in the chair. He takes his reading glasses off so he can look at me; it isn’t until now that I realize how _exhausted_ he looks, eyes wild and sunken, like someone pressed them in with a spoon.

 

“Shit. Are you okay?”

 

He nods, but the movement is sloppy. “Just tired.”

 

His words etch guilt into my stomach. _I_ was the one who kept him up with my screaming and spasms. I fold my hands over my belly.

 

“Hey, I’m sorry I kept you from sleeping.”

 

At this, he blinks, leaning forward. “What? No—no, it’s fine. I was still awake when I heard you.”

 

I wonder if he’s lying to make me feel better. It wouldn’t surprise me, though I’d never know—Peeta, the most honest and genuine soul I know, is somehow also the best liar.

 

Unsure of what to say, I avoid the conversation by sticking the container of rice in the microwave, my back to him. I watch the neon numbers on the screen tick lower, one by one, until it dings. I take a deep breath. With the food now in my hands, I start to turn, praying he’s gone back to his work.

 

He hasn’t. His eyes are still glued to me—I get the impression he hasn’t stopped watching me this whole time. Something in my chest flutters, and it isn’t unpleasant like I want it to be.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

 

“Talk about what?”

 

The column of his throat bobs as he swallows hard. “Your dream?”

 

I sit across from him, head pointed down to limit the amount of red he can see heating up my face.

 

“Same old, same old.”

 

“The Fight?”

 

I pinch the cheap fork between my fingers, letting it drag over the grains of rice. My throat feels dry. “Yeah.”

 

There’s a pause.

 

“You know…” His voice is soft, measured, like the footsteps of a trespasser, the first uncertain bites of an unidentified casserole. “You never told me about what happened.”

 

My stomach roils.

 

“You know he hit me.”

 

He flinches, as if just the mention of the punch delivers the impact to his face, too. After collecting himself, he pushes, “I don’t know _why_.”

 

No. I’m _not_ going there. “It doesn’t matter,” I say.

 

“It _does_.”

 

“Why? Will his motive make it somehow forgivable?”

 

The thread wiring up his jaw snaps, his mouth popping open. I know I shouldn’t have said that—of _course_ he won’t forgive Gale. As sympathetic as Peeta naturally is, after all this, he probably hates the guy more than I do. He never liked him to begin with: Not when I introduced them at the frat party, not when I started dating him, not when we moved in together, and _certainly_ not when I wound up on Peeta’s doorstep last month. It took me until The Fight to see it, but now I understand that Peeta’s hatred came from a genuine judgment, from his supernatural ability to see through people’s façades. The English major in him has read enough books and explored the depths of enough characters to know things about human nature the rest of us can’t, and for some reason, he knew from that first handshake that Gale was exactly what he’s turned out to be. And he cared about me too much to keep his mouth shut.

 

What’s funny, sort of, is how that dedication—and my closeness with Peeta—was what caused The Fight. It’s because of this, above all reasons, that I can’t ever tell Peeta what happened. Even if I had the courage to open up, I could still never explain that Gale hit me because I missed dinner with him after my study session with Peeta went to late, and Gale didn’t believe me when I gave him my excuse, so he leveled me with an ultimatum: _Me or Peeta, Katniss. Me or Peeta._ I was never given the opportunity to respond—my hesitation must’ve told him all he wanted to hear, because then began the yelling, the knotting of his fist, the _you don’t love me_ , the _you can’t love me_ , the _you love him, you whore, you’re worthless_.

 

Sometimes, those accusations still hiss in my ear.

 

Peeta gapes at me from across the table as I run over this in my head, convincing myself for the millionth time not to give in. Then, he says, his tone so soft it suffocates me:

 

“I could _never_ forgive him, Katniss.”

 

“I know,” I say, rubbing the pressure from my temples. “I’m sorry.”

 

He leans back in his chair, letting his eyelids seal for a moment, as if the thought of excusing Gale’s behavior is enough to make him need a short nap.

 

“I just thought that you telling me about it would help you heal,” he finally admits. “Talking about it might be good for you, you know.”

 

“I’m doing alright on my own.” Decidedly, I shove the Tupperware of cooling rice aside. “You don’t need to worry about me, Peeta.”

 

“While you’re at it, might as well tell the sun to stop rising.”

 

The tin of the fork digs into my thumb as my grip tightens. “I’m twenty-two, Peeta. I don’t need to be coddled.”

 

“Then you picked the wrong friend to bunk with,” he snaps. I blink, expecting him—the gentlest creature in all the forest—to take it back. But he doesn’t. “If you were in my shoes, and had your best friend show up at your door, bruised and with blood smeared all over their cheek, and they cried to you all night, you’d feel this way, too.”

 

His words lodge like little pieces of metal in my chest, cutting deep into the networks of veins and arteries underneath. Every inch of me aches. He stares, and I stare back, watching the flame in his eyes soften into something much more tragic. _That_ hurts even worse.

 

“I never want to see you like that again,” he continues, so softly I can barely hear. “I’ll do whatever it takes—even if it means I have to piss you off—to make sure you’re not hurt. Call me a mom, if you may, but it’s not going to make me stop caring.”

 

The way he stares, as if looking away for even a moment will bring about nuclear war, proves to me just how serious he is. It’s a total tone shift from the Peeta I’ve grown accustomed to after all this time—loyal as a puppy, protective but gentle. This new Peeta, if given the opportunity, would take up arms for me.

 

My mind reels back to that night of our study session, where he quizzed me on chemical formulas while I quizzed him Shakespearean characters, only hours before The Fight. We were sitting here, in these exact same seats, only his cheeks were dimpled and his eyes bright. I’d said after his rant over Ophelia, _God, what am I going to do after we graduate?_

 

_Become the next Einstein._

 

_No, I mean… what about us? What if we don’t even end up in the same state?_

 

_That’s easy: You get a job for yourself first, and I’ll come follow you. Every city needs a young, ambitious, and secretly sexy librarian._

_And apparently, a freakishly naïve one at that._

_What am I supposed to do? Make chocolate chip pancakes for myself?_

The faithfulness that he professed there is still alive and well, only now, it’s coupled with a ferocity that would scare me were it to come from anyone else. But Peeta can only mean well. It’s not in his wiring to behave in any other way.

 

“I’m sorry, Peeta,” I tell him now, leaning in so the lip of the table nips at my ribs. “I don’t thank you enough for what you’re doing for me.”

 

“It’s what friends do.” He says this so simply.

 

But I shake my head. “It’s what _you_ do. It’s why I came to you after The Fight—I knew you’d be good to me. I knew I could trust you.”

 

Though more shallow now, the dimples in his cheeks reappear under a sad smile. “If you _want_ me to ever back down, I will. But until you tell me so, I’m going to coddle you, because that’s what I know how to do.”

 

Maybe it comes from never having that motherly affection himself, or maybe it comes from some arrangement in his genome—either way, it’s an inextricable part of who he is, and I _know_ that. It’s why I gravitated toward him in the first place: I was scared, even though it took me years to admit it, of being so far away from home, and this skinny blonde boy emanated that aura that pulled me in. Though much has changed—like the size of his muscles, and the magnitude of our friendship—that aura is something that’s remained the same.

 

* * *

 

At night again, I ask for the sofa, but he insists I take the bed. As I turn, a question simmers in the back of my throat, bubbling against my molars. A single word.

 

_Come?_

But as soon as I feel it in my mouth, I swallow it back down, damning it to the bottom of my stomach, because it doesn’t belong here, just as we don’t belong in the same bed together. Regardless of how nice it felt to have him there at the time.

 

Still, a small tug at the muscles in my neck cause me to look back at him. I expect him to be hunched over the sofa, tucking the sheets into the gaps.

 

But he’s standing, watching me go, expression laced together with a similar question of his own. But he must decide, whatever it is, that it doesn’t belong here, either, because he just nods and looks away.

 

* * *

 

Living with Peeta isn’t like it was with Gale. After only a few weeks with Gale, we were at each other’s throats, snapping at things as simple as a breath, cough, or sneeze. The Fight was the first time the conflict had reached physicality, but it wasn’t as out of the blue as I wanted to pretend it was.

 

Peeta is different. We do laundry together, make flashcards while sharing cheap wine, sing as we rinse the dishes in the sink. (Well, _I_ sing, and he listens.) When we fight, it’s because he doesn’t let me put whipped cream on my pancakes. These arguments usually end with whipped cream on his face.

 

Toward the end of April, with graduation looming around the corner, we’re having one of these innocuous squabbles when a knock rings against the door. He sets down the canister of whipped cream that I’ve been fighting him for, heading for the door.

 

He pulls it back without looking out the peephole. Mistake.

 

“ _Where is she_?”

 

At the sound of the low growl I know too well, I drop behind the island in the kitchen, pressing my back to the cool wood. Like Harry Potter’s scar, the pink sliver on my cheek begins to burn.

 

“You can’t come in here.” Peeta tries to pad his voice with the same coarseness, threatening and deep, but he doesn’t have the natural aggression to back it up. There’s a pounding sound against the wall.

 

“She’s staying with you, isn’t she? Her mother said she was staying with you—”

 

He talked to my _mom_?

 

“Get out of here, Gale. I’ll call the police if I have to.”

 

“What do you think I’m going to do, man? I just want to talk to her!”

 

“Then step out into the hall. You can talk to her through the door.”

 

“So she _is_ here?” Feet squeak against the veneer; Gale shouts out, “Katniss? Katniss!”

 

When I hear the brush of skin on clothing, I stand—Peeta shouldn’t have to get in the middle of this. My eyes focus on the two men immediately, Gale straining toward the kitchen as Peeta tries to hold him back, one thick arm curved across Gale’s stomach.

 

I realize that standing was a mistake the moment he sees me. His eyes, bloodshot and searing, go wild.

 

“So you’re with _him_ now, huh?” Gale bellows, yanked back a few inches by Peeta without even noticing. His words are smeared together, his hair matted against his sweaty temples.

 

“Go home, Gale,” I tell him as I round the corner of the counter. At Gale’s side, Peeta mouths, _No!_ but I continue anyway. This is my fight. “You’re drunk. I’ll call you a cab.”

 

“I’m not leaving until you do,” he slurs. “You think you can just leave me for him?”

 

“What the hell are you talking about? I left because you _hit_ me, Gale!”

 

“Because you love him!”

 

My gaze flickers to his side where Peeta stoops, gripping Gale’s torso as he drunkenly reaches out toward me. Peeta’s face, initially drawn tight, goes slack in confusion. He blinks once, twice; Gale gains an inch. Then his arms tighten, and he jerks Gale back. But there’s something new painted in his eyes.

 

“I want you to get out,” I tell Gale, trying to mask the fear in my tone with something more menacing. But the trembling breaks through.

 

“I thought I could handle it,” Gale says, completely oblivious to the man holding him back by the torso. “I thought I could accept it, you know, but then when you came back to get your stuff, I just—I _miss_ you, Kat.” His own voice starts to quiver, too, even though his consonants are still blurred together from the alcohol. “And I don’t care if you love him more than you love me! I don’t want to make you choose anymore. I just want you back. I want you back. _Please_.”

 

The way Peeta’s brows crinkle together betray his concern—a fear that Gale’s words are chipping away at me—but even if Gale were sober, trying to be civil as we sat down at a coffee shop for a heart-to-heart, he still couldn’t change my mind. Though Peeta is only a friend, he’s shown more genuine, healthy dedication each night than Gale did throughout our entire relationship. Nothing can make me forget that. I don’t _want_ to forget.

 

“I can’t talk to you like this,” I tell Gale, calm as I can be. “Maybe in a week, when everything’s settled down, we can hash some things out. But I’m not coming back to you. Not even—”

 

“—Are you not _listening_ to me?” Gale suddenly bellows, and his muscles stiffen and grow red with rage once more. Behind my lids, there’s a flash to last month, to the curling fist, to the impact, to the black and red, black and blue—

 

“You need leave, now!”

 

It’s Peeta’s voice that breaks through Gale’s howls, breaks apart my flashback, bringing me back to the present moment just in time for me to see him start shoving Gale toward the door.

 

“I’m not leaving without you!” he yells, trying to break through Peeta’s iron grasp. But, even though Peeta is shorter in physical stature, his sheer power makes up the difference, and he holds Gale at bay. “Katniss, you can’t stay with this guy. He’s not good for you. _I’m_ good for you!”

 

“You _hit_ me, Gale! Peeta wouldn’t touch me!”

 

“Oh, but he wants to!” His lips twist into a sickening grin. “Bet this pretty boy thinks about it every night. Oh, not like that, Kat—no fists. No knuckles. Can’t you see it? He dreams of doing what I’ve done with you. Even now—look at that stupid scowl on his pretty-boy face! Proves I’m right! How does it feel, Katniss, to know you’re living under the same roof as a man who would lay _every_ finger on you the moment he got the chance—”

 

His sentence is ripped in two as his body flattens against the wall, Peeta locking him there with a hand hooked around the column of his throat.

 

“Get out of our apartment, and leave Katniss alone,” Peeta whispers, each consonant laced with acid. When Gale tries to turn his head, Peeta’s fingers tighten as he adds, “You don’t even get to _look_ at her. You forfeited that right long ago.”

 

My toes twitch inside my socks, begging me to run to the bedroom, take shelter there. But, just like the spectacle of jagged metal and roaring flames at a car wreck, the sight of Gale, _frightened_ , while Peeta holds him by the throat—not as a show of violence, but a simple, clear warning—is too enrapturing for me to look away. I’m anchored here, watching everything as I’ve known it flip upside-down in the most mesmerizing way.

 

And then Peeta, with his free hand, throws the door back open. He releases Gale’s throat, and Gale obeys.

 

He doesn’t even look at me before he stumbles out, the door bolting behind him.

 

When it’s all over, and the tension sealing the room is dusted with a loaded silence, I find myself staring at Peeta as he stares back. His hands are at his sides, fingers spread wide, not curled up into fists. His shoulders rise and fall, rise and fall with each labored breath, made deeper by the spike of adrenaline. His eyes, underneath the madness, brim with apology.

 

As if he’s done something _wrong_.

 

It’s a snap of an impulse, pumping heat into my veins and courage into my chest, that throws me across the room. Before I can really think about my actions, my arms are on him, hands cupping the angular jaw I love so much as I tug his mouth down to mine. It’s hot, but tastes so sweet. Trophy of a hard-earned victory. Though the victory is all his.

 

I feel his fingers knotting in my hair, lips parting to give access to his tongue, gentle but eager as it slides over my teeth. I shudder at the touch, fall even deeper into his chest, breathe in his breath until there’s no more oxygen between us. The asphyxiation feels royal. I try for more, holding him to me by the neck. But he’s too strong, and he pulls back, sucking in an overdue breath.

 

“Was he telling the truth?” he gasps when his blood has enough oxygen to let him form words. “About you loving me?”

 

“Yes,” I admit, both to him and to myself. It’s the first time I’ve let myself weigh the words, but now that I feel them giving rhythm to my heartbeat, I can’t imagine how I could’ve denied it for so long. _Love you, love you, love you._ Each syllable, an upbeat and a downbeat, a swish of blood through the arteries.

 

And then, another fragment of Gale’s words cuts into the front lobe of my brain. “Was he telling the truth?” I repeat, locking his stare with mine and falling even more in love with the blue. “About you wanting… wanting to touch me?”

 

His pupils fatten. The black almost entirely squeezes out the blue, swelling like a latex balloon. He licks his lips. He swallows hard.

 

He gives me a terrified nod.

 

For a second, I let myself wonder how long he’s wanted me like this. Maybe he’s just realizing it now, like I am—or maybe he’s known all along, since I showed up at his doorstep, since we studied flashcards, since we were just shrimpy, wide-eyed eighteen-year-olds at freshman orientation.

 

But then I remember that I’ll have the time to think about these things later. Now, it would be a waste of time, since I have his lips inches from mine, his fingers leaving their prints along my skull, his eyes asking the question I’d been too afraid to ask the day before:

 

_Come?_

 

I nod, closing the gap between us.

 

I kiss him harder than I’ve ever kissed anybody—harder than I’ve ever _wanted_ to kiss anybody, and I imagine this is true for him, too. His mouth welcomes my mouth, and my body finds a home in the warmth of his. One hand is in my hair, the other curving at my waist. He rocks against my stomach, and even through the cotton of his sweatpants, I can feel how hard he is. Like a firework, heat uncoils in between my thighs and reaches out for the other corners of my body.

 

He presses his body against mine, and I step backward, yielding to his touch. We keep going until my back hits the table; his breath catches. A slight hesitation. Our mouths unseal with a _pop_.

 

“Do you want the bed?” he asks in between heavy breaths.

 

I drag my thumb along his jaw, the slightest prickle of stubble sending electricity up the length of my fingers.

 

“I want _you_ ,” I tell him, because that’s all that matters.

 

He catches my mouth with his again, and his hands slide down from my waist to my thighs, squeezing tight as he hoists me onto the table. As he does so, my fingers tangle in the trim of my shirt. He helps me yank it over my head, and I snap off my bra as he removes his own shirt.

 

Instinctively, he starts to lean in, but then his eyes comb over my body, bringing him to a halt. The impatient edge of his movements melts away, replaced by a sudden need to slow down time, and he touches my hips, eyes flickering from my torso to my eyes.

 

“Holy hell,” he whispers.

 

I look down. Small breasts, skin striped with protruding ribs. “Boring ol’ me,” I say, rolling my eyes.

 

“New to me,” he murmurs, swiping my stomach with his thumb, planting a prairie of goosebumps over the flesh there. “And absolutely beautiful.”

 

He kisses me again, and I take the opportunity to press my palms against his chest. They brush over the light dusting of hair, then work their way down, feeling the hard plane of his stomach. I try to focus on the feel of his abdomen, but his lips move down to my neck, suckling the pulse point under my ear, and my attention span evaporates.

 

A gasp collects in my throat as his lips move down, down, down, worshipping the skin of my neck, collar, breast, ribs, stomach, until his teeth tug playfully at the denim of my jeans. Eyes flit up to mine. Brows raise. The unasked question: _Please?_

 

I answer it by popping open the button, helping him peel them from my legs.

 

With my pants and underwear on the floor, he kneels at the foot of the table, thick fingers gently prying apart my thighs. A jolt of voltage sparks through me as his lips press against the inside of my leg, _so close_.

 

“Are you sure?” I ask him.

 

The unsaid response: _Of course_.

 

My mouth fills with a moan, warm and primal, at the first touch of his tongue. He works over me with long strokes, heavy strokes, and I fall back onto the table, the wood protesting against my shoulder blades. But I only feel that for a moment, and then every ounce of my concentration pours into him, his mouth. His _mouth_. My tongue forms words: _Holy fuck, oh god, oh Peeta, please_ , but all that comes out are moans punctuated by sharp inhales.

 

Peeta’s dated a few girls since we met—he must have experience, for his lips and tongue know all the secrets of this rhapsody. It could bother me. But I don’t let it. Instead, to lay claim to his devotion, as if I don’t already have it, I cry out his name into the ringing silence of the kitchen, tangling my fingers in his hair, promising I’m just as much his as he is mine, and no one else in the past could matter as much as this.

 

He draws away just long enough to whisper, “You taste like heaven, Katniss,” and I laugh, responding through a sigh, “And hell, do you _feel_ like it.”

 

Only a few moments later, the love songs of his tongue against my flesh, coupled with his thumbs stroking along the insides of my legs brings me higher, closer, _there_ , and everything unravels inside and above me, until all I can feel are his fingerprints on my thighs and in my veins, revering every inch of me.

 

When I regain feeling in my arms, I urge him upward by the shoulders. He plants a kiss on the column of my throat.

 

“I want to make love to you,” he says, kissing the same spot over and over and over again.

 

I nod. “I’m on the pill,” I murmur, kissing his hair. “And I’m clean.”

 

“I’m clean, too.” His eyes are suddenly level with mine, his thumb brushing the sweaty strands of hair from my forehead. “This is unreal, Katniss.”

 

“I know,” I say. Warmth wells in my chest. “Oh, do I know.”

 

His fingers skate between us, prying open my thighs again after he pulls off his sweatpants. Before I can take the opportunity to look him over, his lips have returned to mine.

 

“I’ve wanted to do this for ages,” he says against my mouth. “I can’t remember not wanting you.”

 

For only a second do I weigh the guilt before I bid it away. I haven’t wanted him because I haven’t allowed myself to want him. But there have been little things—craving him beside me in bed, wanting him to hold me, always coming here, to his apartment… all those nameless desires that I’d tried to push to the back of my mind all resurge, and finally, all make sense.

 

It’s funny, and not funny at all, that Gale was the one who noticed it. That, after all the bad he did, after all the pain he caused, he brought me here, right to where I belong.

 

I flatten my palms over his shoulders, kissing his neck as he holds me apart, gently pushing himself in. My recent orgasm guarantees little resistance, though I’m still surprised at the tugging in my center, struggling to accommodate all of him. It’s hardly unpleasant.

 

He’s been holding his breath with every inch, and when he’s buried to the hilt, he finally releases a thick groan into my neck. “Shit, Katniss,” he hisses, fingers digging into my hips hard enough to leave a mark. But these are the kinds of bruises I’ll welcome.

 

My back arches, my body melting against his as he draws out and pushes in again. His breathing grows sharp and uneven against my neck, and though his hands try to hold my body steady by the hips, I slide along the table with every rocking motion.

 

“Oh, _Peeta,_ ” I moan, holding onto him as tight as I can, for warmth and for dear life. Stars flutter behind my eyes, growing whiter and whiter with each thrust. I can’t remember the last time sex felt this good. I don’t think it ever has, or could’ve—every edge and contour of his body locks perfectly with mine, and I feel so _full_ , both physically and emotionally, as he makes love to me on the same kitchen table where we’ve made flashcards, dinner, and all kinds of memories that these new ones will add to.

 

I know he’s getting close by the way he starts rocking faster, faster, faster, and his Oh, Fucks turn into Oh, _Fuck_ s, and he tells me I’m beautiful, and soft, and warm, and perfect, and everything, and I have no choice but to believe him. He’s a wonderful liar who never lies. His silver tongue can be used for better things, anyway.

 

“Katniss, I—” He cuts himself off, moaning against my flesh. I stroke his neck and back, whispering, _come for me, Peeta_ , and that’s all it takes. Pouring my name into my collar, he comes with a long shudder, squeezing me with the might of a python, the warmth of bedsheets in the morning. And his body is just as comforting as the latter. Catching his breath, he lays on top of me, resting his cheek on my chest as I stroke my fingers through his sweaty curls.

 

We’re both silent, not due to the overabundance of thought, but to the absence of it. This time is ours to spend with each other, not in our own heads. I feel no need to think. Just a need to hold him, to experience the boy who became a man, the best friend who became a lover, all in one night, though it feels like it’s been a lifetime with him. A lifetime thus far, preparing us for a lifetime longer.

 

After a minute, an hour, a year has passed, I feel his lips lazily press against my breast.

 

“I could really go for some pancakes right now.”

 

A laugh bubbles in my throat. I kiss his forehead. “With chocolate chips.”

 

“And whipped cream,” he says. “You gave me the best night of my life, so I feel like I owe you that much.”

 

But we don’t move quite yet. His arms flex around me, holding me tighter as he nuzzles my neck with his nose.

 

“Can you sing for me while we bake?”

 

I push his hair back. “Under one condition.”

 

He looks up, propping his chin on my chest so he can look at me, and so I can look at him, finding Home in his eyes.

 

“You have to sleep in the bed tonight,” I say.

 

A smile breaks over his lips, dimpling his cheeks. “Only if you’re sleeping there, too.”

 

We seal this deal with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr at the-peeta-pocket.


End file.
